Work Text:
Taehyung is wearing the wrong shirt. In his room this afternoon, it had seemed like the perfect choice, the bright geometric pattern like something a creative person would wear. But he’s regretting it now, because the material is too thin, and the one ancient heater in this little art classroom is not enough to keep him warm. He should have chosen more sensibly; should have known that clothes wouldn’t turn him into a real artist.
At least the class is over now, and he only has a short car ride to shiver through before he can dive beneath his bed covers. No one else has left yet: the rest of the class are gathered at the front of the room, helping themselves to the pre-packaged food and off-brand fizzy drinks that have been optimistically labelled an “end-of-year party buffet”. But Taehyung won’t join the celebrations, and not just because of his inadequate clothing. Everyone else is chatting, laughing, and planning what they’re going to make during next term’s class, and Taehyung just doesn’t have the energy to deal with that tonight.
Instead, he turns back to his easel, which still holds his final artwork. The painting is the biggest one he’s attempted so far, abstract blotches of green, blue, purple and the occasional hint of red, all swirling and blending together. There are shapes in there too, sharp hooks and points, but none of it forms a recognisable image. When he’d painted it, he’d thought of something glimpsed through murky water, or the sky before a thunderstorm. Now, it just seems like poorly-combined blobs of colour. A paint-stained drop sheet is tangled around the legs of the easel, from when Taehyung had whisked it off to reveal his creation; he picks that up and begins to tuck it around the edges of the canvas.
“Ah, yes – our most ambitious artwork,” says the teacher’s voice behind him. Stepping up to the painting, she hovers a finger over a swirl of red in one corner. “This line is particularly pretty – you have an eye for colour.”
Pretty - Taehyung tries not to wince. She’s an unfailingly kind tutor, always finding a word of encouragement for even the most talentless student, and it’s not her fault there’s nothing meaningful to say about the painting. “Seonsaengnim,” he says with a stiff bow. “Thank you again for all your help throughout the year.”
“You won’t stay for the party?” she asks. “It’s true the food is not exactly exciting, but I did spot a nice bottle of wine.”
Taehyung glances toward the window into the corridor and is relieved to spot a familiar face peering through the glass. Yoongi has picked Taehyung up from almost every class over the last few months, and he insists on waiting outside, no matter how often Taehyung invites him into the classroom. Yoongi says he doesn’t want to distract anyone from their work, but Taehyung suspects that he's terrified of being asked to give an Opinion on Art.
Trying to look regretful, Taehyung says, “My friend is here, and I couldn’t possibly keep him waiting.”
“Well in that case, I look forward to seeing you again next year,” the teacher says. Taehyung’s only reply is another bow, so she smiles and returns to the rest of the students.
Turning towards the window, Taehyung beckons insistently. Yoongi shakes his head, but Taehyung persists until Yoongi heaves a sigh and slips into the classroom, with a wary glance at the chattering crowd by the party tables.
“Is the class finished?” he mutters when he reaches Taehyung. “The rest of them look like they’ll keep going for a while yet.”
“Who knows? But I’m done,” says Taehyung. “Just let me grab the rest of my stuff.” There’s a large, empty plastic bag on the floor, which hopefully doesn’t belong to anyone - scooping it off the ground, Taehyung throws tubes, brushes, and all his other recently-purchased art supplies in willy-nilly. (Yoongi darts a nervous glance towards the art teacher and moves to block Taehyung from her line of sight.) Once the bag is full, Taehyung tucks it under his arm and, with some difficulty, manoeuvres the painting off the easel. “Alright, ready to go.”
Yoongi gives Taehyung’s shirt a doubtful look. “Didn’t you bring a coat? You can’t just wear that – it’s freezing outside.”
Taehyung attempts to shrug, though it’s difficult while holding a large canvas. “It’s fine – I’m sure I can make it as far as the car. Oh no, hyung, wait - you don’t need to…”
But it’s too late: Yoongi has already pulled off his oversized dark hoodie. “Take it,” he says, not meeting Taehyung’s eyes. “I have a spare one in the car, because unlike some people, I checked the weather forecast.”
Taehyung puts down the painting and takes the hoodie, which smells quite strongly of coffee – there's probably at least one drink stain on it somewhere. But when Taehyung slips it over his head, the material is soft and already warmed to the perfect temperature. “Thank you,” he murmurs, rubbing the sleeve cuff between his finger and thumb.
With all the commotion, the wrapping has slipped off one corner of the canvas, revealing a whirl of blue and grey. Yoongi studies it for a few moments, running one finger across the ridges of paint, then pulls the wrapping back into place. “Let’s get all this to the car.”
Outside, an icy breeze has sprung up, lowering the temperature even further. This makes walking difficult, as the painting catches the wind like a sail and pulls them in first one direction, then another. The wind also tugs at the neck and sleeves of Yoongi’s shirt, but he doesn’t complain, although he must be freezing. Seeing this, Taehyung doesn’t feel that he can grumble aloud, but internally he’s cursing the day he decided to take up painting.
“You don’t usually have this much stuff,” says Yoongi, nodding at the plastic bag. “I hope it’ll all fit.”
“Yeah. I’m not going back next term, so I thought I should clear all my things out.”
“You’re not? Since when?”
“I decided tonight – haven’t told anyone else yet. Maybe I should have just left all this behind, but some of it was expensive, so…” Taehyung shrugs. “We can just dump it in a bin somewhere, if there’s no room for it.”
Yoongi frowns at Taehyung, but all he says is, “We’ll make room.”
Somehow, they make it down the block to where Yoongi’s little car is waiting. They squash Taehyung’s gear into the trunk, but the painting has to be wedged across the back seats. It only just fits, and when Taehyung flops into the passenger seat, one corner jabs into his neck. He shoves at it roughly, but the painting stubbornly refuses to budge. Meanwhile, Yoongi retrieves a near-identical hoodie to the one Taehyung’s wearing from behind his seat, pulls it on, and climbs into the car. With the doors shut, the sound of the wind drops away, leaving them in a cocoon of silence. Before he starts the car, Yoongi looks across at Taehyung for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, still without a word, he turns on the ignition and pulls away from the curb.
Taehyung lasts three minutes before the silence becomes too much for him. “You haven’t asked why I quit - but I suppose you’ve already guessed. I’ve flaked out on so many things before – hobbies, jobs, people – so why would painting be any different? The only thing I’m really good at is giving up.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything like that,” Yoongi says quietly. “And you went to painting classes for over a year – that’s not flaking out.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “You can tell me why you quit, if you want, or we can never mention the subject again. Up to you.”
Taehyung sighs. “I just realized that I’m not very good. And it’s not like I didn’t know that before, but back when I started, I assumed I’d get better, once I’d figured out how everything works. But like you said, it’s been over a year, and I still can’t do it right. Can’t make things come out the way I want.”
“A year’s not that long,” says Yoongi. “Some skills take decades to master. It’s fine to keep learning for as long as you need, if you’re enjoying it.”
“I’m not, though,” says Taehyung. “Not anymore. It’s not even about how good I am, not really – it’s more that I realized painting won’t give me what I want.”
“Which is?”
Taehyung sighs and rests his head against the window, watching as the deserted winter streets roll past. Yoongi waits silently, not asking his question again – he’s always known when to give Taehyung space to think.
“I want to communicate with people,” Taehyung says eventually. “Wanted to say things with paint that don’t work when I say them with words. That’s why I bothered to go to a class – if I were just trying to please myself, I could throw paint on a canvas and smear it about, no skill required. But if I want to show other people, I have to know what I’m doing, so that they’ll understand what I mean.” He pauses to take a slow, steadying breath. “They didn’t, though. We all showed off our paintings during the class, and when we got to mine, everyone just went quiet. Half of the other students couldn’t come up with anything to say. And the teacher, she said it… said it was pretty.”
“Oh,” says Yoongi. “No, it’s… pretty’s not the word I’d use.”
Taehyung shuts his eyes, so he won’t have to see even the silhouette of the hated canvas. When he started work, he’d had such a clear picture of it in his head – not just its appearance, but how it would make people feel. It was supposed to be grandiose, dramatic, intense. The sort of art that made you take a step back, made you clutch one hand to your heart and say, “Oh!” He’d been so sure it was good; barely slept last night out of excitement over people seeing it. And what he got instead was “pretty”.
“I think I will throw it away, after all,” he says, still with his eyes closed. “The other stuff, paint and brushes and so on, that could be useful for someone, but the painting’s just a big, awkward, ugly thing that no one wants, especially not me. Maybe I should just leave it at the side of the road.”
“No,” says Yoongi, low and urgent. “Don’t do that. I’ll keep it for you, if you really can’t stand to have it at your place, but don’t throw it away.”
Taehyung’s eyes flick open, and he twists in his seat to stare at Yoongi. “Why? What could you possibly want with it?”
Yoongi is silent for a long time, staring thoughtfully at the road ahead. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “I don’t understand the painting – I’m not even sure that I like it, to be totally honest. It’s unsettling, you know - I’ve thought that from the very first time you showed it to me. Not the sort of art you can admire for a few minutes and then move on from. Something about it sticks in your head.”
Unsettling. Taehyung turns the word over in his head, feeling the shape of it. It’s a strong, emotive word – far better than pretty.
Yoongi throws Taehyung a quick, worried glance. “I’m sure that’s all nonsense – you know I can’t talk about art. But the painting’s yours, and that’s reason enough to care about it.”
The faintest hint of a smile creeps onto Taehyung’s face. “Not my painting anymore – I’ll give it to you, as a gift, no strings attached. You can do whatever you like with it – use it as a doorstop, hang it in your bedroom—”
“Absolutely not,” Yoongi says with a shudder. “I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. But maybe I’ll put it in my studio – it can draw me out whenever I get too caught up in my head.”
They’re almost home: a left turn at the next intersection will take them onto Taehyung’s street. But Yoongi doesn’t turn; he brings the car to a stop in the middle of the empty road, fingers hovering over the indicator.
“Come back to my place,” he says, all in a rush, with his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I’ll need help to get my painting up the stairs, for one thing.” He shoots one lightning-quick glance at Taehyung, then returns to staring out through the windscreen.
“There’s also your hoodie,” suggests Taehyung. “I can’t possibly go home before returning it.”
Yoongi snorts. “You’re also not going back to your place without it – there’s no way, it’s far too cold.” One corner of his mouth twitches, just a little. “I suppose you’ll have to stay overnight, and hope that it’s warmer tomorrow.”
“That's a smart idea,” says Taehyung. “Lucky I have you to think of these sort of things.”
Yoongi starts driving again, turning towards his own apartment. His right hand drifts towards Taehyung’s knee, but before it gets there, Yoongi pulls it back and settles it on the gear stick. Taehyung looks at the hand, then up at Yoongi’s face, filled with a surge of overwhelming fondness. He lays his own hand on top of Yoongi’s and wriggles his fingers, trying to worm them into the gaps between Yoongi’s knuckles.
“I don’t know how I’m suppose to drive like this,” Yoongi grumbles, scowling at the steering wheel. But he shifts his hand so that Taehyung can entwine their fingers together, and doesn’t let go the whole way home.